To the show that never ends! Though you may have thought it did (and rightfully so-- particularly my Russian readers who somehow found this blog when 99% of traffic is currently through Facebook). My unintentional and unannounced hiatus has been the result to a very busy end of the school year. It was the least stressful June wrap-up of my career, despite everyone in my immediate family (even my dog) getting ill or needing medical attention, but I was too busy during most of April and May to update the blog. However, like Emerson, Lake, and Palmer, I am now inviting you come (back) inside and gaze into the Teacher / Parent Fun House Mirror. Today's reflection focuses on the parent side of the mirror-- after all, it is Father's Day.
Something that I realized last night and today as it relates to the teacher / parent dynamic is that emotionally speaking, I am much more responsive to mushy stories about parenting than I am about teaching. I've read feel-good, look-what-we-accomplished tales from the classroom, but none had me as choked up as an article I read last night about the Stanley Cup. (You can read it here, but the actual Grantland website appears to be in a state of flux at the moment...) The quotes from players about how they celebrated with their fathers made me a teary-eyed mess. However, I realized today that those emotions weren't just brought on by the father angle, or the fact that I love hockey. Cracking open an as-yet unread issue of Sports Illustrated from May (I told you I was busy!) gave me an opportunity to read an article about Mother's Day, and bam, I was crying again. While I am a firm believer in the existence of a "man cycle" -- the Mother Health blog has an entry about it -- I do not think these emotions were attributable to my hormonal patterns.
I believe they have everything to do with how I was raised, and how my father showed me that emotions are meant to be felt and shared, not hidden away. I was always given the impression that there was not, nor should there be, any shame in crying. Which probably explains why I well up at the end of The Catcher in the Rye, or when my son transitioned into a "big boy" (he calls it a "good boy") bed. My tendency to wear my heart on my sleeve has yet to steer me wrong, but what of this realization that the reading or watching the experiences of other parents, but not teachers illicit a more emotional response?
I guess it could be as simple as the fact that even though I was a teacher first, I will never retire from being a parent. I could not go on strike from being a parent. The government could never take away my right to bargain with my soon-to-be three-year-old. In short, I am a parent for life, and a teacher for as long as I can be until it is no longer a means of supporting my family, or until robots replace me-- which could happen simultaneously, of course. And though I normally only cry when things are beautifully innocent or heartwarming, the day T1000's replace teachers could be the rare case when sadness triggers my tears.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Accept No Substitutes
After an odd week where I was out of the classroom on more days than I was in it (due to an ill child and two days of curriculum meetings) I have had more experiences with substitute teachers in the span of five days than I would typically have in an entire marking period. My three subs ran the gamut from "amazing at dealing with snafus" to "incapable of clicking through a PowerPoint presentation." My students, on the other hand, were consistent. No names were left on the rabble-rouser list, and at no point did the students try to undermine the intended goals of the class hour. This put me in the awkward position of lauding my students for what should be the norm. If the adult in the room isn't me, high-schoolers are still old enough to stick to a plan and follow directions. Whether it is attributable to the classroom environment I establish or not, I haven't had an instance in my seven years where all hell broke loose while I was gone.
So, when I did return yesterday, I thanked the students, told them that I appreciate the way they behaved, and told them that the results were exactly what I had expected. But it still feels like this all boils down to me praising something that shouldn't be praiseworthy, akin to a member of my carpool telling me that he appreciates my use of the turn signal and the fact that I didn't hit any other cars while driving us to work. That would get really old (and rather creepy) really fast.
I then think about my son, and how so much of what I say to him is praise for doing basic things. "Good using words," "Good listening," "Good petting the puppy gently," "Good eating." At his age, he needs a tremendous amount of direction and guidance. I see him as this blank slate, on which everything I say or do makes a mark. So, I make a concerted effort to praise him when what he is doing is what I want or expect him to do. I wonder when that will stop-- when I won't feel like I must congratulate him on the awesome job he does with climbing up stairs or brushing his teeth. I also wonder if what I am doing now will help him be the sort of kid who, regardless of whether the adult in a room is the regular classroom teacher, a flaky substitute, or a robot (it's ten years until he's in high school-- it could happen), will do not just what the teacher expects of him, but what I expect of him. That's the type of student I was in high school, but what if the marks I make on his blank slate don't produce the same results? I guess I'll wait until my son's name appears on the rabble-rouser list before I worry too much about that-- in the meantime, I'll stick to complimenting him on how well he cleans up his toys.
So, when I did return yesterday, I thanked the students, told them that I appreciate the way they behaved, and told them that the results were exactly what I had expected. But it still feels like this all boils down to me praising something that shouldn't be praiseworthy, akin to a member of my carpool telling me that he appreciates my use of the turn signal and the fact that I didn't hit any other cars while driving us to work. That would get really old (and rather creepy) really fast.
I then think about my son, and how so much of what I say to him is praise for doing basic things. "Good using words," "Good listening," "Good petting the puppy gently," "Good eating." At his age, he needs a tremendous amount of direction and guidance. I see him as this blank slate, on which everything I say or do makes a mark. So, I make a concerted effort to praise him when what he is doing is what I want or expect him to do. I wonder when that will stop-- when I won't feel like I must congratulate him on the awesome job he does with climbing up stairs or brushing his teeth. I also wonder if what I am doing now will help him be the sort of kid who, regardless of whether the adult in a room is the regular classroom teacher, a flaky substitute, or a robot (it's ten years until he's in high school-- it could happen), will do not just what the teacher expects of him, but what I expect of him. That's the type of student I was in high school, but what if the marks I make on his blank slate don't produce the same results? I guess I'll wait until my son's name appears on the rabble-rouser list before I worry too much about that-- in the meantime, I'll stick to complimenting him on how well he cleans up his toys.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Reach for the Stars
After reading this article, which gives new meaning to "oops," I can think of quite a few school districts that would have appreciated a share of the millions of dollars that were spent on this-- to borrow a word from a beer commercial-- travishamockery. I have to laugh at the word "likely" being used in the headline, because when I am not sure where my keys are, I'm not satisfied with knowing their "likely" location, let alone a quarter of a billion dollar spacecraft. I'm sure the men and women at the National Aeronautics and Space Administration are quite upset, and so am I. It's not that I think NASA and its projects are completely useless, it's just that I can think of so many other earthy endeavors, education only one of them, that would be better recipients of taxpayer funds. And while public perception of what is spent by NASA and the actual percentage of the Federal Budget that they receive are worlds apart, it doesn't change the fact that I think the funds are misappropriated.
Were a student to tell me that he or she wanted to become an astronaut, I would find it difficult to choose between simply encouraging the dream or supporting the interest in science while nudging him or her toward a vocation that could pay dividends for the occupants of this planet. As it is, I haven't had a student tell me that, most likely because the phrase, "I want to be an astronaut when I grow up" is much more commonly heard in an elementary school setting. And at that point, the dream is very unlikely to come true, as evidenced by the fact that every third male walking down the street isn't wearing firefighting gear, a police badge, or a space suit. Do I want my son to become any of these three things? Not particularly, but I won't discourage him from expressing early and often what his career interests are. At age two and a half, we aren't there yet, but if his imaginative play is any indication of what he will some day become, the best bet right now would be Santa Claus.
I do know that there are any number of unrealistic and probably not-too-beneficial-to-the-world (one Justin Beiber is enough, dammit) dream careers that my son may one day aspire to. I'll deal with that when I get there. My actual fear is that he will set his sights on a more grounded career path that I don't like, for whatever reason. In 1997, I decided I wanted to teach high school, even though I was still just a tenth grader. I knew what I wanted to be, and I got nothing but encouragement from my teachers and family. Before my 21st birthday, I was teaching high school. I set a goal and received support on my way to it-- any critics among those I cared about were silent. I can't know for sure that I'd be where I am today if someone had voiced disagreement or doubt, so I am grateful that no one did.
A fear much larger than the prospect of a misplaced set of keys, or even a phone-booth-sized 278 million dollar satellite, looms on the horizon. What if the biggest obstacle between my child and his future career ends up being me?
Were a student to tell me that he or she wanted to become an astronaut, I would find it difficult to choose between simply encouraging the dream or supporting the interest in science while nudging him or her toward a vocation that could pay dividends for the occupants of this planet. As it is, I haven't had a student tell me that, most likely because the phrase, "I want to be an astronaut when I grow up" is much more commonly heard in an elementary school setting. And at that point, the dream is very unlikely to come true, as evidenced by the fact that every third male walking down the street isn't wearing firefighting gear, a police badge, or a space suit. Do I want my son to become any of these three things? Not particularly, but I won't discourage him from expressing early and often what his career interests are. At age two and a half, we aren't there yet, but if his imaginative play is any indication of what he will some day become, the best bet right now would be Santa Claus.
I do know that there are any number of unrealistic and probably not-too-beneficial-to-the-world (one Justin Beiber is enough, dammit) dream careers that my son may one day aspire to. I'll deal with that when I get there. My actual fear is that he will set his sights on a more grounded career path that I don't like, for whatever reason. In 1997, I decided I wanted to teach high school, even though I was still just a tenth grader. I knew what I wanted to be, and I got nothing but encouragement from my teachers and family. Before my 21st birthday, I was teaching high school. I set a goal and received support on my way to it-- any critics among those I cared about were silent. I can't know for sure that I'd be where I am today if someone had voiced disagreement or doubt, so I am grateful that no one did.
A fear much larger than the prospect of a misplaced set of keys, or even a phone-booth-sized 278 million dollar satellite, looms on the horizon. What if the biggest obstacle between my child and his future career ends up being me?
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Magic Words
They are called "magic words," but nothing really amazing or surprising happens when one says "please" or "thank you." And it isn't exactly a magical moment when I hear students use these niceties, though I do appreciate it when a kid expresses gratitude upon receiving an assignment. In some instances, the expression could very well be ironic. Imagine it's near the end of 6th hour... a Friday-- do kids really mean "thank you" when a teacher chooses this moment to introduce a project or essay? Suddenly, the weekend that was to be free from homework has become a Saturday and/or Sunday of hard labor. Yet some students still say "thanks" as I hand out the sheets of paper that detail their weekend's demise. Those who say nothing are probably better off for it. If a student is considering saying a phrase ending in "you" in a case like this, "thank" probably isn't the first choice for what comes before it. Maybe in those instances it is some form of magic that prevents a teenager's brain from allowing his or her mouth to utter something regrettable.
Actual situations like the one described above are rare, to be sure, and perhaps the "thanks" is as much a Pavlovian response as it is anything else. But the other day, two students who had approached me with questions on an essay helped each other in the process of getting clarification from me. I was struck by how, before returning to their respective desks, each one took the time to thank the other. It was the sort of exchange that should be commonplace, and it made me long for the good ol' "citizenship grade" like the ones my elementary school teachers had at their disposal. I personally don't know of any public high schools that have a mark for rating a student's civility, but an e-mail to each of the students' parents has a more personal touch anyway. Since the unfortunate pattern of teacher/parent communication tends to begin when something is going wrong in the classroom rather than going right, it is always a pleasure to be on the sending end (and I'm sure on the receiving end) of an e-mail that says, "Your child is kind and polite. In fact, earlier today..."
Though it will be a few years before I will have an opportunity to open such an e-mail, I have enjoyed witnessing firsthand my son's recent outburst of politeness. Although he still often needs to be reminded of the existence of "please" so that his requests don't sound like demands, he has mastered the art of the "thank you." He recently won his first-ever prize from a claw machine game, and he was quick to express his gratitude. "Thank you veddy much box," he said, tightly squeezing his new purple teddy bear. Last weekend, several minutes after we returned from buying groceries, he rushed over to me as though he had forgotten something. He looked up at me, wrapped his arms around my legs, and said, "Thank you Daddy drive me blue car home." In that moment, it was easy to see why they are called "magic words."
Actual situations like the one described above are rare, to be sure, and perhaps the "thanks" is as much a Pavlovian response as it is anything else. But the other day, two students who had approached me with questions on an essay helped each other in the process of getting clarification from me. I was struck by how, before returning to their respective desks, each one took the time to thank the other. It was the sort of exchange that should be commonplace, and it made me long for the good ol' "citizenship grade" like the ones my elementary school teachers had at their disposal. I personally don't know of any public high schools that have a mark for rating a student's civility, but an e-mail to each of the students' parents has a more personal touch anyway. Since the unfortunate pattern of teacher/parent communication tends to begin when something is going wrong in the classroom rather than going right, it is always a pleasure to be on the sending end (and I'm sure on the receiving end) of an e-mail that says, "Your child is kind and polite. In fact, earlier today..."
Though it will be a few years before I will have an opportunity to open such an e-mail, I have enjoyed witnessing firsthand my son's recent outburst of politeness. Although he still often needs to be reminded of the existence of "please" so that his requests don't sound like demands, he has mastered the art of the "thank you." He recently won his first-ever prize from a claw machine game, and he was quick to express his gratitude. "Thank you veddy much box," he said, tightly squeezing his new purple teddy bear. Last weekend, several minutes after we returned from buying groceries, he rushed over to me as though he had forgotten something. He looked up at me, wrapped his arms around my legs, and said, "Thank you Daddy drive me blue car home." In that moment, it was easy to see why they are called "magic words."
Monday, February 21, 2011
What is and What Should Never Be
When I started this blog, I made some rules for myself. For example:
One of her own former students very articulately addresses how he feels about the situation in the first article, and I couldn't agree with him more, at least regarding her behavior. I don't share his opinion that "[h]igh school kids don't want to do anything..." In fact, much of what Ms. Monroe was complaining about reflects more about her ability to manage a classroom and motivate students than it does about the state of today's youth. Every teacher struggles with a particularly challenging student or even a group of them during a school year, but resorting to what Natalie Monroe did is unacceptable, from both a parental and educational perspective. Those "applauding her for taking a tough love approach" and members of the Facebook group that support her should be ashamed of themselves. I laud the students who notified the powers that be about the blog, and I hope that if any teacher were to ever rain insults down in a general or specific manner on my son, he wouldn't hesitate to get an administrator or another teacher involved. I recognize that public employees and everyday citizens in this country are experiencing a real and valid surge in union solidarity in light of the debacle in Wisconsin, but if any teacher directly or indirectly calls my boy "rat-like," you can damn well bet I'll want him/her fired. If publicly insulting students is what's best for kids, come next September, Central Bucks East High School will still have at least one teacher in its hallways who has demonstrated a frightening lack of empathy and a tendency toward lapses in judgment-- not the least of which is that she continues to defend her actions rather than admit that she has erred.
- I will write this blog anonymously.
- I will focus on how my job as a teacher and my role as a parent simultaneously impact each other.
- I will write positive, thought provoking, or humorous things, but if I must be negative about something, I will try to do so constructively.
- I will never write about a student in a way that he or she could feel slighted by what I said, partially because of the anonymity I am maintaining.
- I will give credit where credit is due. (Thanks to Jimmy Page and Robert Plant for the name of this blog entry.)
One of her own former students very articulately addresses how he feels about the situation in the first article, and I couldn't agree with him more, at least regarding her behavior. I don't share his opinion that "[h]igh school kids don't want to do anything..." In fact, much of what Ms. Monroe was complaining about reflects more about her ability to manage a classroom and motivate students than it does about the state of today's youth. Every teacher struggles with a particularly challenging student or even a group of them during a school year, but resorting to what Natalie Monroe did is unacceptable, from both a parental and educational perspective. Those "applauding her for taking a tough love approach" and members of the Facebook group that support her should be ashamed of themselves. I laud the students who notified the powers that be about the blog, and I hope that if any teacher were to ever rain insults down in a general or specific manner on my son, he wouldn't hesitate to get an administrator or another teacher involved. I recognize that public employees and everyday citizens in this country are experiencing a real and valid surge in union solidarity in light of the debacle in Wisconsin, but if any teacher directly or indirectly calls my boy "rat-like," you can damn well bet I'll want him/her fired. If publicly insulting students is what's best for kids, come next September, Central Bucks East High School will still have at least one teacher in its hallways who has demonstrated a frightening lack of empathy and a tendency toward lapses in judgment-- not the least of which is that she continues to defend her actions rather than admit that she has erred.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
"Light Bulb" vs. "Wow" Moments
While reading applications as our department attempts to fill two mid-year openings, I noticed that nearly every applicant answered the question about what the most rewarding thing is about being a teacher in almost the same way. The response was commonly about the "light bulb moment"-- when a student realizes something that he or she had never understood up until that point. I don't think there is necessarily anything bad about this answer. In fact, that was the answer I gave when I applied. But now I realize that it is the wrong answer. The most rewarding part of teaching is not the moment when the kid "gets it" and suddenly understands a never-before-understood concept-- and it shouldn't be. After all, isn't that my job, to make kids understand things they didn't understand before? Could the biggest reward in my career field be doing what I'm supposed to do? Teachers need to have high expectations for students, but this "light bulb moment" response implies that expectations are rather low if these moments are so gratifying. But I don't fault people who gave that answer, or my seven-years-ago self, because it is only with years of experience that I realized what the right answer is, at least for me-- and it's something that I see and hear my son do almost on a daily basis.
The most rewarding thing for me as a teacher is when a student says something that I've never before had a student point out during a discussion of literature-- when he or she comes up with something that I, after having read the text we are dealing with so many times, had never considered before. These instances are pretty rare, but they fill me with a remarkable and perhaps un-nameable feeling. It isn't pride, because I (probably) had nothing to do with whatever the student said, but it's close. Maybe the best way to describe these instances is by calling them "wow moments," as in, "Wow, I'd never thought of it that way before..." "Wow moments" are more rewarding to me than "light bulb moments" because they can't be anticipated. I should and do start a poetry lesson saying, "All of these kids will understand slant rime (which they'd never heard of before until that day) by the time we are done discussing it" but it would be silly to expect all of them to analyze or interpret the poem in a way that neither I nor any of the other students in the room, let alone any of the other students I've ever had in the past, had ever conceived of.
These moments also occur in the parenting side of my life-- except that I can expect my son to wow me each and every day. On a Monday he's calling one of his creations that that he brought home from pre-school (a brown construction paper animal on a stick) a "teddy bear," but suddenly two days later he pointed to it and correctly called it a "gwoun-hog." Of course he heard the correct term from his mom and I and at pre-school, but it was his unprompted switch in that moment to the proper term that wowed me. Yesterday he picked up a toy-- a girl wearing pink cowboy attire (the kid loves horses)-- and came up with "hat boy"-- pretty close to "cowboy," and little off on the gender, but a "wow moment" just the same. But my favorite "wow moment," surpassing all of the amazing ones that I've experienced as a teacher, happened on Friday, when, before I could ask him my routine question of, "What happened at school today?" he offered this up as we pulled out of the parking lot: "Dah-dee, I play choo choo game at school." It was the first time he prompted the sharing of his day, and one of the first times that the initial share wasn't about nap or snack. (Not that those things aren't important!) He's becoming, as I've said before, a "small man," and I have the pleasure of being there and sharing in the "wow."
The most rewarding thing for me as a teacher is when a student says something that I've never before had a student point out during a discussion of literature-- when he or she comes up with something that I, after having read the text we are dealing with so many times, had never considered before. These instances are pretty rare, but they fill me with a remarkable and perhaps un-nameable feeling. It isn't pride, because I (probably) had nothing to do with whatever the student said, but it's close. Maybe the best way to describe these instances is by calling them "wow moments," as in, "Wow, I'd never thought of it that way before..." "Wow moments" are more rewarding to me than "light bulb moments" because they can't be anticipated. I should and do start a poetry lesson saying, "All of these kids will understand slant rime (which they'd never heard of before until that day) by the time we are done discussing it" but it would be silly to expect all of them to analyze or interpret the poem in a way that neither I nor any of the other students in the room, let alone any of the other students I've ever had in the past, had ever conceived of.
These moments also occur in the parenting side of my life-- except that I can expect my son to wow me each and every day. On a Monday he's calling one of his creations that that he brought home from pre-school (a brown construction paper animal on a stick) a "teddy bear," but suddenly two days later he pointed to it and correctly called it a "gwoun-hog." Of course he heard the correct term from his mom and I and at pre-school, but it was his unprompted switch in that moment to the proper term that wowed me. Yesterday he picked up a toy-- a girl wearing pink cowboy attire (the kid loves horses)-- and came up with "hat boy"-- pretty close to "cowboy," and little off on the gender, but a "wow moment" just the same. But my favorite "wow moment," surpassing all of the amazing ones that I've experienced as a teacher, happened on Friday, when, before I could ask him my routine question of, "What happened at school today?" he offered this up as we pulled out of the parking lot: "Dah-dee, I play choo choo game at school." It was the first time he prompted the sharing of his day, and one of the first times that the initial share wasn't about nap or snack. (Not that those things aren't important!) He's becoming, as I've said before, a "small man," and I have the pleasure of being there and sharing in the "wow."
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
If You Choose Not to Decide...
That's right, Rush, you still have made a choice. 'Tis the season in high schools for course selection. Freshmen, sophomores, and juniors are determining what the next steps in their high school careers will be. As a teacher of English, I try to help students pick literature and composition classes that will help them get where they want to be at the end of high school, challenge them, and interest them all at the same time. With literature classes, I stress that students should choose a class they would be highly interested in. If a student doesn't love Shakespeare, taking our school's Shakespeare class because it might look impressive on a transcript is, in my opinion, a bad decision. When given a choice in the matter, life is too short to spend time, even just a semester, studying something because some university might approve.
For some kids, they already know what they want, and all they really need me for is a signature telling the counselors that I okayed their choice. I have seen over the years that these kids do not fit the stereotypical "nerd" profile, and in fact, they don't fit any stereotype at all. They employ a variety of means of expression, manners of dress, and are not defined by any one social label, but what they have in common is knowledge of self. They know what they like, as opposed to merely knowing what they don't like. But in truth, most students don't have a strong opinion on the matter of which literature class to take. Their opportunity to have an opinion is impeded by their lack of knowledge of self when it comes to reading for enjoyment. For once, I don't think this can be blamed on apathy, because students who aren't sure of what to choose when they look at the list of literature class options seem genuinely confused about what to do and earnestly seek my advice on which class I recommend for them. I think a lot of their ignorance of their own literary interests can be connected to how infrequently they read anything that they actually want to read, aside from text messages from friends and status updates on Facebook, of course. Since the studies mentioned in this article from Education World predate the ubiquity of smartphones in the hands of teenagers, I would imagine that Sustained Silent Reading programs are even more beneficial today. Many students now inhabit a world where the internet is literally available to them at all times, yet they choose to do other things with it than immerse themselves in the world of eBooks and online magazines that can be accessed through it anytime, anywhere.
And then I think of my son, who right now has a deep, burning interest in books-- particularly those featuring things on wheels, things that float, animals and their living quarters, and bunnies that are sleeping and/or are about to go to sleep. What will he be reading in ten years? And how? Will he be the first generation to carry all of his textbooks on a tablet or e-Reader? Will a chip implanted in his wrist project a 3-D image of words into the space in front of his eyes with a verbal command? Okay, that one is probably a "no," but while I don't have the answers to the other questions, I know that I will do all I can to infuse in him a knowledge of self when it comes to literature-- to know what the likes and what he doesn't when it comes to reading, so that if and when he has the opportunity to decide which type he will be immersed in for a semester of high school, he won't need his teacher, or me, at all.
For some kids, they already know what they want, and all they really need me for is a signature telling the counselors that I okayed their choice. I have seen over the years that these kids do not fit the stereotypical "nerd" profile, and in fact, they don't fit any stereotype at all. They employ a variety of means of expression, manners of dress, and are not defined by any one social label, but what they have in common is knowledge of self. They know what they like, as opposed to merely knowing what they don't like. But in truth, most students don't have a strong opinion on the matter of which literature class to take. Their opportunity to have an opinion is impeded by their lack of knowledge of self when it comes to reading for enjoyment. For once, I don't think this can be blamed on apathy, because students who aren't sure of what to choose when they look at the list of literature class options seem genuinely confused about what to do and earnestly seek my advice on which class I recommend for them. I think a lot of their ignorance of their own literary interests can be connected to how infrequently they read anything that they actually want to read, aside from text messages from friends and status updates on Facebook, of course. Since the studies mentioned in this article from Education World predate the ubiquity of smartphones in the hands of teenagers, I would imagine that Sustained Silent Reading programs are even more beneficial today. Many students now inhabit a world where the internet is literally available to them at all times, yet they choose to do other things with it than immerse themselves in the world of eBooks and online magazines that can be accessed through it anytime, anywhere.
And then I think of my son, who right now has a deep, burning interest in books-- particularly those featuring things on wheels, things that float, animals and their living quarters, and bunnies that are sleeping and/or are about to go to sleep. What will he be reading in ten years? And how? Will he be the first generation to carry all of his textbooks on a tablet or e-Reader? Will a chip implanted in his wrist project a 3-D image of words into the space in front of his eyes with a verbal command? Okay, that one is probably a "no," but while I don't have the answers to the other questions, I know that I will do all I can to infuse in him a knowledge of self when it comes to literature-- to know what the likes and what he doesn't when it comes to reading, so that if and when he has the opportunity to decide which type he will be immersed in for a semester of high school, he won't need his teacher, or me, at all.
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